the art of boredom

He lay sprawled across the unkept bed, considering what to do with the remaining hours of the day.  He was tired of reading his book, as much as he had been enjoying it earlier.  He didn’t feel like watching any of the films in his not inextensive collection.  Music, no.  Internet, no.  Go outside, noone to go with.  Food, no.  Sigh.  His leg, bent at the knee and crooked upwards, swayed back and forth in some feeble external gesture of the restlessness he felt inside.  His eyes tracked a blowfly as it droned about above where he lay.  He rolled over, burying his face in the pillows, conjuring up some imaginary playmate to come and steal him away.


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